The Power of the Voice
by dreamysherry
Summary: The power of the Voice is the key to her destiny. But one cannot hurry their destiny, especially when it involves Alduin and Ulfric. Dragonborn/Ulfric Stormcloak
1. Chapter 1

The power of the Voice

The power of the Voice is the key to her destiny. But one cannot hurry their destiny, especially when it involves Alduin and Ulfric. Dragonborn/Ulfric Stormcloak

A.N. Ever since I played the Stormcloak quest line, I've really wanted to write something about Ulfric. This is my take on Ulfric and the civil war.

Disclaimer: I do not own Skyrim or its characters.

* * *

Prologue

I came to Skyrim to seek my fortune as a sellsword. Instead, I found Alduin and Ulfric. I am fascinated by both and yet even after three years since my arrival at Skyrim, I am still not ready to face either of them. All I can do now is to learn about them from distance and become worthy of their attention.

It all began in the Talos forsaken town of Helgen. I had that honour of sharing a wagon ride with Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak on the way. I could have had the privilege of meeting my end where he met his, had it not been for Alduin's timely intervention. But right up until my head was placed on the execution block, I didn't really believe I was going to die. When you are young, you feel invincible. Still, there was more than the naivety of a youth that made the prospect of immanent death seem so surreal. I felt the presence of a powerful force in the air and an inexplicable faith that the force wanted to keep me alive.

My first impression of Ulfric wasn't all that remarkable. He was built like a Nord warrior but his attire seemed to suggest that he was a man of some importance. It didn't surprise me when Ralof informed the clueless horse thief that the man was a Jarl. What struck me more than Ulfric's first impression was the sense of pride in Ralof's voice as he declared that the Jarl was the true High King. Ulfric himself just looked tired, as if he hadn't slept for days.

It was only when he stood in front of the Imperial General Tullius, I began to understand, aside from their anger against the Empire, what made the Stormcloak soldiers so fierce and loyal. Even as bound and gagged, Ulfric had that commanding aura about him. It wasn't just the height difference that made Tullius look like a dwarf compared to the Jarl of Windhelm. The contrast was almost comical as it was the Imperial who were supposed to have all the power at that moment. Tullius was the victorious General who had captured a rebel leader. He had managed to have the Jarl bound and gagged, waiting for his turn on the execution block. Yet for all that, Ulfric looked more of a man than Tullius ever could.

General Tullius' speech was rather dull, but it was part of his speech that turned my curiosity about the Jarl of Windhelm into all consuming desire to become close to the man. Tullius' words enlightened me over the significance of the gag that Ulfric alone had been wearing.

"A hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne."

The Imperials were afraid of his voice and for a good reason. The Jarl of Windhelm knew how to turn his voice into a terrifying weapon. How fitting it is that he was called Ulfric Stormcloak.

I didn't know a single Shout then, but I remember feeling a strange sense of kinship with him. He has always been an enigma to me and from what I have found so far about him, I suspect he always will be. Yet, I also have the sense of affinity to him just as I feel the connection to Alduin whom both I and Ulfric owe our lives.

The power of the Voice links us together. It is why we will end up seeking each other out. It is why we cannot turn away from our paths which will cross again at some point.


	2. Chapter 2

A.N. Yep, I know. You cannot save Roggvir's life no matter what you do in the game. You can save him from execution but he is scripted to die so that you can complete some minor quest upon his death. But it is not my intention to follow exactly how the events unfold in the game. Besides, this is my fiction. So, he gets to live. XD

* * *

Dovahkiin

I had been with the Companions for nearly six months when I killed my first dragon. I had already gained knowledge of a few shouts by then through the word walls I had accidentally came upon while completing contracts for the Companions. When I saw these ancient words, I could understand them without effort, as if recalling a piece of lost memory from the past. But I still could not use them. It was only after I slain and absorbed the power of the unfortunate dragon that decided to hover close to the ground, I could unlock the secret of the power of my Voice.

I have no particular talent in archery. Neither have I shown any aptitude for magic save for some basic healing ability, despite my Breton heritage. The only weapon I could use and use well until that time was my swords. But being a Breton has its advantages, even if I am not particularly great with the arcane art of magic. We can withstand the power of magic better than any race. Coupled with my healing ability, magic alone cannot deal me a devastating blow. The dragon probably thought it better to attack me with its claws or jaws.

Dragons are magnificent creatures, the first creation of Akatosh. They are proud of their power and do not shy away from a battle. I harbour no ill will towards them unlike Delphine. But I understand that my life is more precious to me than that of any dragon. I also know that my only chance to unlock the secret of the Voice and get closer to Alduin is through consuming the souls of slain dragons and making their knowledge my own. Being a Dragonborn means sharing the same hunger for the power of the Voice with Alduin. For whatever reason Alduin saved me from the axe of the executioner, I can feel that he is waiting for me to grow stronger.

My second encounter with Alduin was all thanks to Delphine's insistence that she needed proof that I was indeed the Dragonborn the Greybeards thought I was. I developed a strong dislike of the Breton Blade from my first meeting with her and I'm sure the feeling is rather mutual. But neither of us could make much progress for what each sought without the other's help. As long as she understood I wasn't looking for a friend in her, I could live with accepting her help in my quest to become closer to Alduin.

The power of Alduin I observed in Kynesgrove was breathtaking. I knew the dragon who saved my life in Helgen was infinitely more powerful than any of the dragons I managed to slain. But even after learning 'Slow time' shout, it still amazed me to watch him to resurrect a dragon. "Flesh against time" was a power that belonged to the realm of the Divine.

Alduin still refused to officially recognise me as a Dovahkiin but I knew that despite his cutting remark that I was a false Dragonborn, he had accepted that I had the soul and blood of a dragon. The resurrection of the dragons was more for my benefit than Alduin's. My power was still insignificant compared with his and it would probably remain that way without the dragons he had been resurrecting. Every dragon he threw my way was a challenge and an opportunity to get a step closer to Alduin, the most powerful creation of Akatosh. But would I ever become as powerful as he is now? I doubt it and he probably doubts it too.

What is it that Alduin wants from me? Why doesn't he just go ahead and bring the end of the world now? Why save me at all in the first place?

"Why on earth did you have to earn yourself a huge bounty on your head in Haafingar? All that for a rebel sympathiser. General Tullius, given half opportunity, will gladly put your head back on the chopping block and the Thalmor must have heard of it too."

From the unmistakable tone of annoyance in Delphine's voice, I can see that she failed to come up with a feasible infiltration plan. She doesn't invite me to sit down with her around the long table in front of a fire place and I'm glad of that. I stop at the threshold of her secret room so that we can keep our physical distance and try on an innocent smile, knowing that I made it nearly impossible for her to sneak me into the Thalmor Embassy. I didn't really believe that the Thalmor had anything to do with the return of the dragons. I only agreed to go there because I heard a rumour that Ulfric was once captured by the Thalmor and the current Thalmor Ambassador was his interrogator. The possibility that I might be able to find more information about him was the only reason I went along with Delphine's crazy idea.

"You forget that the Thalmor can only be kicked out of Skyrim once the rebels win the war. But never mind that. My stance on the war didn't bother you when you sought out a Dragonborn and it won't help for you to dwell on our political differences. Let me just say it was important for me to rescue Roggvir when I found out why he was about to be executed. I couldn't do it without leaving plenty of witnesses behind."

I had no time to plan for the rescue and although 'Slow time' shout helped me get both myself and Roggvir alive out of Solitude, I could not accomplish that feat without killing at least several Solitude guards and the Imperial soldiers while the civilians watched on. Besides the only people who are known for using their shouts in Skyrim are Ulfric and myself, aside from the Greybeards who never leave their safe haven.

"In any case, I'm no good at pretending. That's not my style and being with the Companions for so long didn't really help to develop my other potentials. But if the Thalmor are as paranoid as you are, there might be a secret passage from the Embassy to outside. If there is a way out, that usually means there is a way in."

"I will look into it. Can you give me another month?"

"Send me word to Jorrvaskr when you find a solution."

With that, I turn my back on her and leave her to her concerns about the details of the operation.

* * *

Windhelm

"Here, Gytha."

Ralof waves at me from a table in the corner. His beaming smile always warms my heart. I have no doubt in my mind that I owe him my life. Alduin provided an opportunity for life but it was Ralof who showed me how to seize that opportunity and make it out of Helgen. He is a capable warrior and has a kind heart.

"It is always good to see you, friend."

It is still early afternoon and the upstairs of the Candlehearth is deserted, apart from us and a Bard who is playing the flute. Besides, we are in Windhelm, the safest city for the Stormcloaks and Stormcloak sympathisers. He speaks quietly nevertheless, and I appreciate the discretion. Having taken my seat opposite him, I return his smile and raise my tankard brimming with sweet mead.

"In honour of Ulfric and his great Stormcloaks."

"To the true sons and daughters of Skyrim and our dearest Breton friend."

We both take a long sip of the warm drink and enjoy the pleasant sensation of contentment for a moment before Ralof speaks again.

"This is the first time I've seen you in Windhelm, but you've been to the city for at least a few times, I hear."

"What makes you think that?"

I have been to Windhelm whenever I came near the city, mostly for the Companions business. They weren't necessary visits but I loved this cold city of blizzards, the capital of the first Empire of Tamriel founded by the legendary Nordic hero Ysgramor. It gave me an insight into the minds of the Nords in general and Ulfric in particular.

"Oengul War-Anvil often talks about his Breton friend who found him a legendary sword. His description of this friend seemed to match your appearance. I haven't seen a Breton with fiery red hair like yours, you know. Anyhow, he told me that he had seen you a number of times over the years and once he saw you talking to Brunwulf Free-Winter, who seemed to have lost his temper with you afterwards. What happened then?"

Brunwulf? It takes me a little while to recognise that name. The Nord is a war veteran who became disillusioned with war in general. He advocates peace and tries to undermine Ulfric's cause by pointing out the Jarl has turned a blind eye to the living conditions of the Dark Elves. As a foreigner and Breton, I am not entirely comfortable with the Nords' suspicion of other races. But they are no more prejudiced than Bretons in the High Rock or the Imperials in Cyrodiil. The elves themselves were not exactly known for their cosmopolitan values. When you are in a foreign land, you must make an effort to show respect for the natives' way of life and become accepted. You must prove yourself their friend and ally first. They will then come to your aid when you need it. That is how things work in reality.

"You know how he greets new faces in the city?"

"You mean … his infamous opening line? _'You one of those 'Skyrim for the Nords' types?'_ It's no secret he despises Ulfric and his cause. But hardly anyone pays much mind to him."

I laugh heartily at Ralof's attempt to impersonate Brunwulf's air of moral superiority. It makes Brunwulf sound like the idealistic short-sighted buffoon he actually is. He is too blinded by his contempt for the shortcomings of his kinsmen to understand that it is the Nords who are suffering a far greater injustice than his friends who make no efforts to endear themselves to the Nords of Skyrim. He is so blinded by his desire for peace that he cannot see there is no peace in Skyrim while the Thalmor violates the land and persecutes its people every day. The ex-legion soldier himself claims he is no hero and I fully agree with that assessment. Expressing his beliefs requires no exceptional courage: He is not in danger of disappearing overnight because of it.

"I asked him back whether he believed Morrowind belonged to the Dark Elves. And then suggested that perhaps he should find out how the Dark Elves would respond to my question. I should have left it there but I could see he was muttering that condescending word 'fool'… So, I asked him how he felt about his Nord brothers and sisters who were hunted down in their own land by the Thalmor, kidnapped and tortured for not deserting the God who built the very Empire that betrayed him… I told him I didn't care whether Talos truly achieved divinity, but I would not give up my right to self-determination without a fight. I told him that's why I could understand his kinsmen better than he could. I didn't hang around to hear another pathetic word of insult from him."

I take another long sip of my drink, and Ralof smiles warmly.

"I sometimes think you are more of a Nord than many of my kind and I'm not just talking about your drinking."

"I know," I reply in jest. "I've also settled quite a number of disputes through fist fighting."

Ralof bursts into laughter. Perhaps the image of a little Breton woman throwing punches around was a little too much for him. When he stops laughing, however, his tone takes a serious turn. Just as well. The bard has begun to play 'The Age of Oppression'.

"When are you going to join us, Gytha? Are you still not ready?"

"Soon," is all that I can tell him. "How is the Jarl of Windhelm?"

"Ah so, we are back to your favourite topic. I think it's about time to tell you that Ulfric has been asking about you. He has shown much interest in you."

"He has?" Though I've suspected as much, it still pleases me to hear it.

"What else did you expect? You've escaped Helgen, turned out to be a Dragonborn, and rescued at least two dozen Stormcloak soldiers and sympathisers from the hands of the Imperials and the Thalmor. Roggvir, Avulstein and Thorald are some of the best fighters we have among our ranks and were instrumental in capturing the Whitehall and the Falkreath Hold. The Stormcloaks call you 'gift from Talos'. Ulfric has every reason to show interest in you. He says he wants to know you personally."

All the way to Windhelm from the Reeking Cave, I've been wondering how to go about asking Ralof to arrange a private meeting with Ulfric. The Jarl's reciprocal interest means I don't have to feel awkward about making that request. But the sense of relief is almost trivial compared with the elating feeling spreading rapidly through my veins.

Ulfric wants to know me personally. I am finally worthy of his attention.

"Ralof, I would like to meet Jarl Ulfric in private."


	3. Chapter 3

Ulfric

The Palace of the Kings stands proudly in the centre of Windhelm, dominating the landscape with its ancient stone walls. It is one of the few First Empire buildings that withstood the test of time, a symbol of resilience, strength and courage. It represents the very Nordic culture which the Stormcloaks are fighting for with their blood and steel. It is only fitting that this place is home to their charismatic leader who knows how to rally his troops and inspire their loyalty.

Ralof leads me to the entrance and whispers a few words to the guards, prompting them to smile at me and open the door silently. I enter the hall alone, knowing he is waiting for me. The hall is delightfully spacious and the stone walls and ceilings add to its majestic feel. I see no open fires or braziers to warm the place, but the Stormcloak banners hanging throughout the hall makes me feel at home.

I take deliberately slow steps to suppress the excitement that threatens to overwhelm my senses. Ulfric watches me approaching him from his stone throne, his expression impassive. I cannot help but admire how he fills the throne so comfortably, as if it had been especially made for him. He was born to be a king and he knows it. To the left and right of his throne, what seem to be the only braziers in the entire hall burn brightly.

I look up to meet his penetrating gaze with my own and time stands still as we silently search each other's face to see beyond what others can see. I incline my head when he finally addresses me with a wolfish grin. His voice is deep and commanding just as I have always imagined.

"Dragonborn."

"My Jarl."

He steps down from his throne and tilts his head towards a bench next to the dining table. I take my seat and he takes his once I am seated comfortably.

"Drink," he says, pouring alto wine into my goblet. "It will warm you up, though you seem to bear the harsh climate of our land well."

"I was raised in Bruma in Cyrodiil," I tell him, sipping the liquid. "That's where I heard about you and your cause for the first time."

"A city of Talos," he remarks, his voice warm. "I remember it well. Is it also where you learned to be a warrior? If I remember correctly, they have a fighter's guild there."

"My father worked as a porter and I visited the guild often, talking to the guild members and observing them training. I joined them at the earliest opportunity I could."

Ulfric pours himself a drink and takes a swallow, his eyes fixed on me intently.

"I should have brought you with me here when I escaped Helgen," he says.

"I would have been no more than one of your soldiers to you, had you done that."

He laughs. A pleasing sound, I observe.

"Tell me, Dragonborn, what is it that you seek from me? If it is the power of the Voice you are after, the Greybeards can teach you more. What is it that attracts you to me?"

_He knows. _My cheeks burn in embarrassment, like a naughty cat caught out while stealing cream. Of course he knows. I have been asking so many questions about him to whoever I have suspected to have something to say.

"The same reason you find me intriguing, my Jarl. The Greybeards do not use their voices as weapons. We are not afraid of using them. Even if I have done nothing to aid your cause or even opposed it, you would still have shown interest in me."

"True enough," he admits, with a glint of amusement in his eyes. "That said, I have little time to indulge in my personal curiosities at present. You are here because I have come to regard you as an ally and my soldiers love you. But that is a reason on my part. What motivated you to come and see me finally?"

"I have brought something that may or may not have some importance to you," I reply, taking the leather bound documents I found in the Thalmor Embassy from my satchel.

He takes the documents from my hands and scans through them, his face unreadable. Yet, I feel his anger radiating from his body, cold and unforgiving.

"Uncooperative asset, what an interesting assessment," he comments dryly, handing back the dossier to me. "The Thalmor have such brilliant minds among their midst. They underestimate our cause just like the Empire."

"It is a good thing then that they still see you as an asset."

He smiles at my response. "Perhaps, but things are not going to remain that way for long. Now that the tide of the war has turned in our favour, they will begin to see me as a liability. I need to drive the Empire out of Skyrim before they decide to send direct aids to Tullius. But first, there is something I need to know. Where did you get hold of this information and why did you decide to bring it to me?"

"I have found it in the Thalmor Embassy."

"The Thalmor Embassy?" He raises one eyebrow. "My intelligence tells me that the Thalmor already made several attempts on your life and that Tullius also prefers to see you dead. Do you have death wishes?"

"I… I heard the rumour that you were the first Ambassador's captive during the Great War. With the civil war going on, I thought they might have kept some information on you."

He throws his head back and laughs, open and unrestrained.

"And that is why you brought this to me. You couldn't quite make out the dossier. You wanted to ask me questions that you could not ask anyone else."

"Would you answer them?"

"If you answer my questions truthfully first, then yes. I believe it only fair, seeing that you know a great deal more about me than I know about you."

I nod my consent, even as I know I cannot lie to him.

"Rumour has it that you have turned down the position of Harbinger with the Companions. Did you not desire to lead them?"

"Would you lead men if you knew you would not make a particularly great leader? I have no talent in counselling or arbitrating, which are the responsibilities of a Harbinger. I also knew staying with the Companions was a temporary move. My destiny lies elsewhere."

"Then, you made a wise decision. However, it doesn't explain why you also rejected an honorary title that does not come with a duty. You have angered Balgruuf by turning down his offer to make you a Thane in Whiterun. The fact is known to me, but not the reason."

It surprises me that he knows that incident. Apart from myself, only the former Jarl of Whiterun and his close advisers were aware of the offer. Or that was what I thought, since I had not discussed the event with anyone.

"If you are asking me whether I have no ambition, no desire to be recognised, I can assure you that I would gladly accept that same title from you. I didn't want to be in his debt, because I knew that he would choose the Empire over you when the time came."

"Despite his claim that Whiterun was an effectively neutral territory, aligned with the Empire only in name?"

"I could see that the Thalmor and the Imperial soldiers had a free reign in the city and the surrounding areas. The Imperial soldiers were using the local blacksmith to forge their weapons and armours. The Stormcloak sympathisers and those who didn't give up their worship of Talos still lived in fear of being hunted down. The Jarl's motive may have been noble, but the fact remained that it was not a neutral territory."

He smiles his approval, but he hasn't quite done with me yet. His next question catches me by surprise. "Do you believe in our cause?"

I shut my eyes, trying to gather courage to speak the truth. "I believe in you."

When I open my eyes again, I find him looking rather amused with my answer. "Can you elaborate?"

"I believe that you have the ambition and strength to see this war through. I believe that you can defeat the Aldmeri Dominion if they decide to invade Skyrim. I am confident that it is your destiny to become the High King. I am less certain about mine."

"Thank you for being honest with me, Gytha. I believe I can trust you. What is it that you want to know?"

"Did you know your escape from their captivity was possible only because…"

"They saw me as a potential asset?" He finishes my question for me, his expression calm. "I knew my only chance for freedom was to make them believe they succeeded in manipulating me. They told me that the Emperor had sent secret envoys to the Dominion, practically begging them to withdraw from Cyrodiil. They told me that in return, the Emperor promised to hand over Hammerfell to the Dominion and ban the worship of Talos across his Empire. Foolish and naïve I was, I didn't believe their words at the time, but I had to convince my interrogators that I was breaking thanks to their efforts. I did what I had to do."

"You knew that the information you gave them was worthless?"

"I was but a junior officer at the time and was not privy to military intelligence of any substance. I could see through their intention when they claimed that I was instrumental in the fall of the Imperial City."

"You played them while letting them believe they were playing you. Elenwen didn't really understand whom she was dealing with."

I see a spark of anger in his eyes at the mention of the First Ambassodor's name. The fact that he had outsmarted her didn't seem to make her less repugnant to him. I wonder what exactly she had done to him, but I understand that some things are best left alone in the past.

"The Thalmor tend to overestimate themselves. However, it is entirely possible that … that Thalmor bitch knew I was merely playing along and still pretended to fall for it. I was an asset to them chiefly because I was the only son of the Jarl of Windhelm."

"Did they offer you assistance after the war? After when you realised that the Empire indeed betrayed Hammerfell and Skyrim just as the Thalmor told you they would?"

"I have always suspected that they wanted Skyrim to rise up against the Empire after the war. However, I also knew that, had it not been for our milk drinking Jarls addicted to the Imperial coins, my people could have achieved what the Redguards did in Hammerfell. We could have rejected the damned peace treaty and successfully fought the Dominion without the help of the Empire," he says quietly. "Does this answer your question?"

"Yes, my Jarl." I smile at him. "And I'm sure you will outmanoeuvre them once again."

"Then, join my cause," he commands, lifting my chin with one hand. "Your place is at the battlefield, at my side."

"Yes," I reply with certainty. "That is where I belong."

* * *

A.N. After attacking Thalmor Justiciars a couple of times on the road to save their prisoners, my player was attacked by them in the wild. And guess what I found from one of them? An execution order for my player. It really made me laugh, one of unexpected magic game moments.


	4. Chapter 4

A.N. So, here is another chapter for Ulfric, which hopefully you will enjoy. I still haven't decided how much role Alduin should play in this fic, but I hope it isn't going to be another 'A hero defeats an evil dragon' story. Any suggestions are welcome. :) I am an accountant by profession and it means I'm going to be insanely busy till the end of January. I hope I can manage to write another chapter before Christmas but if not, I will see you in the New Year. Thank you everyone who has been following the story and taking time to give me a feedback.

* * *

Ulfric II

I wake up in a comfortable bed, wrapped by a fur blanket. Sunlight filters through the lattice windows. I remember retiring late and realised I must have slept for some time. My body feels relaxed and refreshed. It has been a while since I felt so well-rested. It has become almost a second nature not to drop my guard completely even during sleep. The companions still joke about my shouting Vilkas to the wall when he tried to wake me up. No one in Jorrvaskr ever tried to disturb my sleep since then.

As I put on my leather armour, I notice fresh apples in the fruit bowl on the small table. The room is still warm with embers from the open coal fire. Smiling, I take a moment to sit at the table where Ulfric sat with me. I take a slow bite into the juicy flesh of the fruit and then another, remembering how he made me feel at ease and yet so alive at the same time. If I were to die tomorrow, the little time I had with him would be the last thing I would remember. It is a happy thought. Nevertheless, part of my heart still aches with my insatiable longing for the man to whom I am about to swear my allegiance officially.

I was given one of the guestrooms in the palace for the night. After our meeting, Ulfric had to go and see the new applicants for his army. According to Ralof, the number of hopefuls for the Stormcloak army has risen dramatically since the capture of Whiterun and Falkreath. Nevertheless, a face-to-face meeting with those who want to join his force is still one of top priorities for the Jarl. And those who carry his banner risk their lives not only for the freedom of their land but also for the love of the man who gives a compelling voice to their hopes and dreams. His voice is the biggest enemy of the Empire, and it isn't merely because he can shout his enemies to the ground.

He was on his way to his bedroom when he found my door slightly ajar and the candlelight still on. He had asked me whether I had trouble sleeping and whether I would like a bit more of his company. I probably sounded a little too keen when I answered I would like that very much, but I don't regret it. We talked late into the night, about the war, about the necessary procedure to join his army and about the dragons.

I found his company very much desirable. His manner was engaging, his mind quick and cultivated. Ralof had told me about the speeches he made when he addressed his soldiers before a battle. They were passionate and moving, but more than that they also showed his thorough grasp of the minds of those who answered his call. Those who want to rule must understand his subjects and understand well. Ulfric knows how to listen. He knows how to make those around him feel valued and secure their loyalty.

The Jarl told me how the Ancient Nords could articulate their power into a shout. Together, their strongest warriors could blow open the most stubborn gates that hindered their progress by simply drawing in breath and letting it out. They could communicate to each other over hundred of miles. Their shouts could inspire courage in their allies and terrify their foes into taking flight. Their power of the Voice could enable them to disarm their opponents, drain their foes' life energy and move with the speed of wind.

When I asked him whether he had used the power of his Thu'um in the Great War, he told me with a rueful smile that its use had been forbidden by the Empire and they never sought to lift the ban even though anyone with a fraction of foresight could see how it would aid their war efforts and they had a school of Thu'um in the Imperial City. They would have arrested him, had he ever attempted to use the power of his voice, as desperate as the war situation had become.

I also asked him whether it was true that even the most gifted take years to master a shout. It didn't seem to make sense in the light of how the ancient Nords wielded a wide range of shouts so effectively. He gave me a knowing smile and said it took him less than a year to make effective use of the unrelenting force shout, and even that only because the Greybeards proved to be the most reluctant teachers. They were more interested in preaching the evil of using the Voice as a weapon than helping their pupils unlock the secret. He admitted, however, that he could not have learned the shout without their help, however grudgingly given. He had healthy respect for their knowledge, even though he did not agree with their philosophy.

There was something Ulfric told me about Alduin that was, I feel, important, but I cannot quite make the connection yet. Apparently, there are those who believe that Alduin is the Nordic interpretation of Akatosh. If this were true, Alduin could be more than the first creation of the god of time. Could the creator of the world be also the harbinger of the end of the world? And where does a Dragonborn, a mortal favoured by Akatosh, fit into all this?

But Alduin can wait for now. Time is a matter of urgency only for the mortals. I have a promise to honour. I had stayed away from Ulfric long enough.

* * *

"So, while we were consolidating out victories, Tullius was busy moving his troops into Fort Sungard," Ulfric muses, his eyes carefully studying the large map in the war room. "How many?"

"Two cohorts. Can't be much more than that. They tried to pull back their soldiers stranded in Falkreath, but we got the bastards first," a burly Nord answers. His voice is rough, full of raw power, and he wears his bear themed officer's armour well. "We can match their numbers."

"Two cohorts in the Fort? That means he has only one cohort left to defend Makarath. I see Tullius has taken a gamble."

"Aye, Fort Sungard has its advantages. He knows we cannot just march to Makarath, knowing they could strike at us from behind. But if he thinks we can't take care of a mere thousand Imperials, he can think again. Just give me the word and I will be off to the front line."

"I do not doubt you can take care of the Fort, Galmar," Ulfric says, his tone warm and sincere. "However, our archers will be at a disadvantage since it is perched on top of a mountain. It is better if we engage at least half of them in a battle away from that area."

The Jarl begins to pace the room, thinking aloud. "Besides, when the Fort falls into our hands and the Imperials hear of it, they may decide to hold up inside Makarath. It could be a long siege."

"It would be a long siege in any case, even if we successfully bypass the Fort Sungard and engage the Imperials near Makarath. When they realise they have no chance against real warriors, they will decide to hide inside the city wall and some of them will manage to do just that."

"Not if the city doesn't open the gates to them."

"Hmm, an interesting idea. But last time I checked it was still that traitor Igmund sitting on the throne of Reach."

Ulfric stops pacing the room and gives me a little smile before replying to Galmar.

"As unfortunate as that may be, Makarath is in my debt and many inside the city know it. Igmund does not have the support of the guards and the citizens. He holds his position purely because of the Imperial presence."

"I get it now." Galmar laughs, his eyes sparkling with delight like a boy who just solved a difficult puzzle. "We are going to send a message to Thongvor Silver-Blood."

"Precisely. Now back to the Fort Sungard, we will have to deal with the Imperials there one way or another. We can battle those who are forced to leave the place first. From the position they hold, they should be able to easily read the movement of our troops. They will have no choice but to come after us if they realise our troops are marching towards Makarath. But when they come out, we will be ready to meet them. You will make sure of it."

There I notice it again, that tinge of trust and warmth in his voice. A man like Ulfric cannot trust others easily. Galmar must have earned it. I have earned it too in some small way, but I sense that it is only a fraction of what Galmar has from Ulfric.

"Lure them out, eh? Not a bad idea. They will see what we will be up to but will have no choice but to engage us on our terms. Oh, we will be ready to crush some Imperial skulls, my lord. Leave the details to me. Right. I better get going to secure you Reach. Is she coming with me?"

I cannot help but smile at the way Galmar finally acknowledges my presence. He is not a man for small talk, but there is a certain charm in his abruptness.

Ulfric turns towards me and raises one eyebrow. "Are you?"

"If that is what you wish, my Jarl." I answer him and take several steps towards Galmar so that I can stand in front of Ulfric over the table. "I am ready to take the oath."

"Once you take the oath, you will be taking orders directly from me or Galmar here. I have briefed him over what I know about your abilities. Feel free to discuss with him your role in the battle field."

"Yes, I understand."

"Well then, let's get on with it. Repeat after me, _I do swear my blood and honour to the service of…_"

I open my mouth and shut it again, seeing Ulfric waving his hand with a mischievous look on his face. "No Galmar, that won't do. I want to hear her own words that stem from her very heart."

Galmar raises his eyebrow as if trying to figure out Ulfric's intention but says nothing. I hold Ulfric's gaze to show him that I mean every word of what I am about to say.

"I pledge my loyalty to you, Ulfric Stormcloak, true High King of Skyrim… to death and beyond. I offer you both my Voice and my blade to strike at your enemies and to further your cause. As Talos and Akatosh are my witnesses, I will remain true to you and true to your warriors as an extension of my allegiance to you."

I hold my breath, waiting for a sign of acceptance. His face remains impassive, his gaze still locked with mine. I feel like a bride at an altar, having bared her heart and waiting for the groom to pledge his commitment in return. It is silly to feel this way. He is not going to reject my allegiance. He commits nothing of himself to me by accepting me into the ranks of the Stormcloaks. Nevertheless, when he finally gives me a smile, when I finally realise I have pleased him, my inane heart leaps with joy.

"And you mean it, too. Welcome to our ranks, Gytha."

"Well, that wasn't bad at all," Galmar observes. "You have a warrior's soul, I hear. I like that. But don't think I will treat you any differently from your brothers and sisters in arms, because you are a Dragonborn."

"I wouldn't expect you to."

"A smart woman, too. I think we will get along just fine, Ulfric."

"That's good to hear. I am relying on you both to drive the Empire out from Reach and her silver mines swiftly and with minimum losses. Galmar, will you give us a moment before taking Gytha away from me?"

"Of course, my lord. Send her to the stable as soon as you are done with her."

"Have you been to Korvanjund?" Ulfric asks once Galmar's heavy footsteps fade into the distance.

"Not yet, my Jarl."

"This may be of some use to you then." Ulfric picks up a rolled parchment placed on the edge of the table and hands it to me. "Galmar found the word in Korvanjund and had it copied. He thought I would be interested in seeing it."

I look at the word with the same excitement and wonder I felt the very first time I came across a word wall. All shouts are special, but this one… this one is more than that. It is from Ulfric and it is a word that gives me a glimpse of the power of Akatosh.

"Klo… Sand… It is… it is the final word I needed in order to master the Slow Time shout. I've been looking for this for so long. Thank you. This is a wonderful gift."

Wordlessly, Ulfric places one hand over my left shoulder. I look up at him and he looks at me with a smile that comforts me like the reassuring weight on my shoulder. All too soon, his hand is gone and still smiling he walks away from me.

"Keep Galmar well and he will keep you."


	5. Chapter 5

Sorry for the long wait if you had been following the story. I had to write bits and pieces at a time, but it's finally here. :) Action scenes make me nervous. I hope I didn't do too badly. XD

* * *

Talos' wrath

It was well after dark when Galmar and I finally arrived at the Stormcloak camp near Gjukar's monument. Galmar wasn't much of a conversationalist and the stops we made to give our horses a rest were short. Nevertheless, from the little conversation I had with Galmar, I found out that he had served Ulfric for decades. He was appointed as Ulfric's housecarl when the Jarl was merely twelve years old and fought the Aldmeri Dominion as Ulfric's shield brother during the Great War.

He spoke of Ulfric with both affection and pride. Even when Ulfric was merely boy and he already a capable warrior, Galmar told me, he knew the future Jarl was special. The boy had passion and appetite for knowledge, especially war and history. His hunger for prowess in battle was equally strong and whatever he desired, Ulfric would not rest till he was satisfied. The boy often skipped a meal simply because in his own mind he wasn't improving fast enough with his training as a warrior or he didn't want to close the book he was reading. Galmar at times had to physically drag him away from his pursuits in order to make sure that the boy he had sworn to protect would not miss more than one meal a day.

Ulfric also loved Talos and was fascinated by the power of the Voice. He often told Galmar that he was going to make history one day just as his hero God did and Galmar believed him even though Ulfric had yet to grow a beard. I believed Galmar when he told me he would follow Ulfric into Oblivion. Theirs' is a bond that has developed over decades, a bond growing only stronger with each passing year. They share a history that I am not part of. It endears Galmar to me because I know losing Galmar would leave emptiness that cannot be filled in Ulfric's life. Part of me nevertheless laments the fact that I am not the one who has that special place in the future High King's life.

There is an air of excitement in the camp, an anticipation of immanent battle. Most soldiers have gone to sleep but many are still sitting around fires, sipping mead, talking and singing. Roggvir is sitting next to me and Ralof opposite. Their familiar faces and a bottle of mead make me feel that I have truly become one of Ulfric's soldiers. When Roggvir saw me in my Stormcloak armour, he wrapped me in his arms before I could protest, his embrace so tight that I could barely breathe. _Welcome, Sister._ It was all he said when he released me, but it was the most heartfelt welcome I was ever given. It makes me glad that he still lives.

A Nord beauty sitting next to Ralof throws her arm over his shoulder and whispers to him. Ralof laughs, his eyes smiling at me, and says, "Tell her."

She laughs and shakes her head. She has been throwing glances towards my direction several times with a half smile. Her chiselled face looks strangely familiar to me, but I cannot remember where I have seen her.

"Tell her what?" I ask.

"Lydia here says you could have been her Thane," Ralof explains. "Balgruuf was going to appoint her as your housecarl."

"Oh." I'm not sure what to say to that. "So, how did you join the Stormcloaks if you were in his service?"

"The Talos mistake." She says and doesn't offer any further explanation as if her answer should have been sufficient for my question.

"The Imperial bastards."

"Cowards, the lot of them."

"The Empire is a disgrace."

A few Stormcloaks make comments one after another, anger and contempt apparent in their tone.

"It's a book written by an Imperial," Ralof elaborates, seeing a confused look on my face. "It says the Emperor didn't agree to outlaw the worship of Talos because the Thalmor demanded it. Apparently he agreed because he suddenly realised Talos wasn't a Divine. It says Talos worship pushes away people from the Eight Divine who deserve their reverence. How convenient is it that he just realised it… because his throne was at stake?"

_Propaganda at its worst._ I suppress the chuckle that threatens to break out. The book seems to have achieved exactly the opposite of its intended effect. But aside from its obvious inability to conceal its motive, I have to wonder whether the Eight Divine will be even interested in being worshipped. I suspect that they wouldn't concern themselves with loyalty of mere mortals. But Talos, he is likely to care. He was a man once and as such should understand what it is to be loved by men. In life, Talos was ruthless in subjugating his enemies and even those who wished to remain neutral with his Voice and his exceptional talent at war. He wanted to have near him only those who were loyal to him.

"It says… _May we find centuries of peace and prosperity with out new Thalmor friends_," Lydia scoffs, her eyes cold with disdain. "When I read that, I finally realised the Empire would never again have a stomach for standing against the elves. Ulfric was right. The Empire is nothing but a puppet state of the Thalmor. They don't keep the Thalmor out of Skyrim. They are the very reason the Thalmor Justiciars are here."

"The Empire deserves Talos' wrath," Roggvir says quietly.

"Ulfric is his wrath. We Stormcloaks are his wrath," I reply to him and the words 'storm' and 'wrath' begin to swim in my head. Storm is often seen as Divine wrath and some of the Imperials and many of the Nords in the Imperial army must be fearful of Talos' wrath. Yes, I have a perfect shout to invoke that fear. I just need to plan how to use it. "And the Imperials will come to believe it."

* * *

The sky is brilliant blue as the sun climbs up the world. It is a sublime day for my little scheme to work as it shows no sign of the storm that I will let loose on Ulfric's enemies. From where I stand, I can see the hectic movements of soldiers inside the fort, trying to form an orderly line while answering shouts that call out each name. By now, they must know the Stormcloaks are marching towards Makarath. They should also know that there are troops waiting for them at the foot of the mountain. But the Empire and its army are faithful to its set ways and as Galmar predicted, their love for their lists take priority.

Galmar offered me his horse as I was adamant that I could not take any of Ulfric's soldiers with me. I had to refuse his kind offer. I know that the lightening that will accompany the storm can not harm me but otherwise it is an indiscriminate power that I will be unleashing. I know this because last time I tried it against a hoard of Forsworns, I nearly killed a sellsword whom I hired temporarily. It was only thanks to my healing magic that he still lives. I have no control over its destructive force. The only thing I am certain of is that its scope is limited and the storm will not harm my brothers and sisters in arms while they stay where they are now.

Standing still, I watch the Imperial army finally leave the formidable Fort that casts ominous shadows over them. They march towards me in good order, a sign of a disciplined army, and I can hear my heart pounding in nervous anticipation. I draw my sword and hope that they will stop when they recognise my armour. I need to address them and it's going to be better if they are still while I talk.

"Halt." An Imperial officer comes forward from behind and the troop heeds his command. He stands in front of them and looks down on me from horseback. He is only twenty feet or so away from me and I know that distance is next to nothing when he is riding. Flight at this stage is not an option.

"What do you want, rebel? Or shall I say Breton witch? If you finally came to your senses and want to surrender, drop your weapon."

I see my reputation precedes me.

"In the name of Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King of Skyrim, and in the name of Talos whom you so shamelessly betrayed, I demand your surrender."

There is a brief period of silence that belies disbelief on my audience's part. It's soon replaced by sniggers and mocking laughter. It seems that I failed to sound or look menacing. It doesn't matter. They aren't going to be laughing for long.

"Then send my regards to Ulfric. Archers, forward."

I raise my sword and point it skyward. And when I shout to the clouds, I am no longer myself. I am the vessel for Ulfric's wrath.

"Strun, Bah!"

The sky darkens instantly and heavy droplets of rain fall upon the clueless Imperial army. An archer screams and drops his bow as lightening strikes.

"I said _forward_," the officer shouts impatiently at the archers who are now reluctant to carry out his order but his voice sounds distant and weak compared with the roaring thunder.

The Imperials' discipline is nevertheless a force to reckon with and the archers, though their mind must be desperately seeking the safety of the stone fortress that they left behind, move towards me with their bows drawn. The sight makes me want to charge, my warrior instinct at war with my self-preservation. I must not find myself surrounded by them when the storm eventually clears. I make a slow retreat, watching another archer fall and then another, followed by simultaneous screams of two Imperial infantrymen. I need not run. Not yet.

"Attack. All of you. Atta…"

The officer is the next victim of the destructive power of my making which is now in the full force. Hot white light flashes everywhere, maiming and blinding those who were trapped in the storm. The Imperials, those who probably managed to hear the last command of their dead officer, charge at me at alarming speed, their swords and bows drawn, but they are no longer orderly, no longer moving as one unit. This time I run towards them, eyeing the horse that was carrying its dead owner.

I swing my blade left to right and then right to left, ripping open the armour and tearing flesh of the first Imperial I come in contact with while lightening taking care of the one behind. I do not linger to finish off my fallen enemy. Their visions and hearing are impaled enough to make them easy targets. Instead, I listen to the singing of my blade and admire the beauty of its dance as I swirl and thrust upon those who managed to place themselves between me and the now visibly hysterical horse.

"Retreat!"

The Soldiers do not care who issued that command. It is what they need to hear and they are running towards the fort as fast as their legs can carry them. I know the storm cannot last long now but they do not. So far, my scheme has worked beautifully.

I slowly approach the white horse so as not to frighten it further, all the time making a soft soothing sound. This horse isn't part of my plan. I was going to turn around and run downhill as soon as my enemies started to retreat in all earnest. It is an opportunity, which should give a comfortable distance between myself and the Imperial army when the inevitable chase comes. It is a gamble I take and I hope it pays off. I hope I am not wasting my valuable time.

"It's all right. I am not going to hurt you, I promise." I repeat the words like a mantra to the horse as I try to reach its mane for gentle strokes. It does not relent to my plea, eyes still wide with fear and shaking its head furiously. I wish I could use my Voice to calm this stubborn animal, but it is not ready. It isn't going to be ready for another shout for some time. I am beginning to have serious doubts over the wisdom of seeing a horse stricken with grief and fear as a potential ally. But it is a little too late to give the idea up now.

The storm has cleared just as swiftly as it began. The sun is out once again, heralding my doom.

"Get her!"

In my haste to get away, I attempt to grab hold of the reign before the horse is ready and the animal bolts away, leaving me no choice but to rely on my own feet to escape the angry army. Or is that option still available to me?

As I turn away from the fort, I see corpses all around me, but there are still many more soldiers alive than dead, and I'm close, far too close, to those who want nothing more than savage vengeance for their fallen comrades.

An arrow misses me by a hair's breadth. With a sinking feeling, I realise that if I run, I'm going to die like the horse thief who met his shameful death in Helgen. I turn back and draw both my swords this time and let them surround me. My healing magic isn't going to save me. There are too many of them who are determined to see me dead. I remember reading Lord Red Eagle fought and slain a thousand invaders before his death. Without my Voice, I will not be able to achieve that feat. Not even close. But I will not go down like some animal destined for slaughter.

I begin to dance the timeless song of death. Swing, thrust and pull. Swing, thrust and pull. There are fears in my enemies' eyes, which make me feel as though I am invincible. I am a storm. I am lightening. Only, my head is spinning and no matter how quickly I move I cannot protect my back. Pain is dull and distant when you are drunk on a battle lust. Nevertheless, the dizziness from blood loss is growing. This battle is not going to last long. And to quicken that end, one of my enemies manages to connect his boot to my thigh, forcing me to the ground. Then I hear it, the sacred shout of Akatosh.

"Tiid, Klo, Ul."

The last thing I see before losing consciousness is a pair of huge black wings sweeping down like lightening from the sky.


End file.
